Zum Fescinating Zymbolizm

Vot ken Hy zay? All der cool keedz (like Darien und Lunar) haz bin doing dis ...

You are The Devil

Materiality. Material Force. Material temptation; sometimes obsession

The Devil is often a great card for business success; hard work and ambition.

Perhaps the most misunderstood of all the major arcana, the Devil is not really "Satan" at all, but Pan the half-goat nature god and/or Dionysius. These are gods of pleasure and abandon, of wild behavior and unbridled desires. This is a card about ambitions; it is also synonymous with temptation and addiction. On the flip side, however, the card can be a warning to someone who is too restrained, someone who never allows themselves to get passionate or messy or wild - or ambitious. This, too, is a form of enslavement. As a person, the Devil can stand for a man of money or erotic power, aggressive, controlling, or just persuasive. This is not to say a bad man, but certainly a powerful man who is hard to resist. The important thing is to remember that any chain is freely worn. In most cases, you are enslaved only because you allow it.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

"For to save her shoes from gravel ...."

When summoned to action in the dead of night from yet another of the festive round of Steelhead dances, one is never quite certain what may appear or occur before the alarm is silenced, and duty served.

On this particular early-November evening, an observer might have taken the young woman standing outside the Kittiwickshire Consulate Office for a recent escapee from the Tamrannoch Sanatorium: nigh-naked, shameless, and posturing, insensible to the chill in the night air. One might have found the sight pitiable, and indeed have been moved to compassion, but for the sign she brazenly wore, matching unquestionably her slatternly manner and unpolished speech. I am reluctant to record herein the wording of her original notice, as my daughters show interest in one day reading these memoirs; suffice it to say that once the young woman had modified her declaration to better suit Caledon as she perceived it, it could be seen to proclaim, "Gentlemen: a glimpse of ankle, L$500 per hour".

Upon my arrival at the scene, a small group of men and women comprised of local residents and merchants was attempting to reason with this Mainlandish apparition. She was provided with Landmarks to free garb appropriate to the era and locale; she was encouraged to cover herself; she was informed (as much as she would bother hearing) that there was no licensed House in the region, and that her activities were not to be welcomed here in any such blatantly visible form. She met this with uncouth insults, questioning both the maturity of the ladies present, and the masculinity of the gentlemen. Incensed on behalf of the learned and lovely ladies of Caledon, I fear I was less than polite to the young woman, pointing out that she was being "a slutty girl"; wondering aloud how a woman of her obvious physical shortcomings could dare to charge so much for her services; and finally, simply, requesting that she leave. Others tried to reason with her as well, meeting with as little success as I.

I believe her final departure from Kittiwickshire was due more to her eventual boredom than to any oratory skills we may have displayed.

An unfortunate collateral effect of this untoward incident was the necessity of modifying the Consulate's Fundraising Calendar for the benefit of Breast Cancer Research, as one of the local contributors to the project, overhearing the confrontation by happenstance, took umbrage at my words to the young woman. Such are the perpetual perils of working with the public, it seems; I took solace in the fact that the Calendar Project had been delayed somewhat, and the removal and replacement of a calendar page was not the hardship it might otherwise have been in the inaugural year of the calendar.

Reflecting later upon the evening's events, I found that this young woman reminded me quite strongly of the sort of Construct popular as a dormitory project among male TPU students during the Long Winter of 1776. Coincidentally, the Long Winter followed the temporary-yet-thorough eradication of the Beetleburg Red Light District by a visiting young American Spark; overly eager to enhance his perceived prowess among the ladies of negotiable virtue, he called down a most enthusiastic show of lightning, incinerating several city blocks ...

Isn't it Rich? Isn't it Queer?

I was not as if it were quiet times that tempted the All-Seeing Murphy that night -- we were occupied with the usual run of Consulate business and busy-ness, and more quietly coping with the aftermath of the events set in motion upon New Erabus. There was the grand opening of the New Consulate, and the myriad special events of the various communities and people among whom we were set; there were new children to care for, and new liaisons to settle into.

How does one prepare for the possibility of a Consulate employee causing both an incipient security threat and a potential international incident, with nothing but her libido? (Yes, very well, my readers know the tale of Monica Lewinsky; we did not, in those days. And, as it happens, those were very different circumstances from these I describe herein.)

We did not understand, then, that one could do what she did; it needed the addition of magic, I believe, to acheive a living adult near-duplicate of the man she so idolised.

She did not understand, when she made a clone of Baron Klaus Wulfenbach, that far more was at stake than could be immediately taken in by her world-view.

Imagine, if you would, the clone of a world leader or other influential public figure of your choice. How could this doppelganger be used against the original, perhaps even in contravention of the duplicate's will? The scenario that comes unbidden to my mind it that of the conundrum of the Two Captain Kirks, one good, one evil. Those of Kirk's inner circle could discern the difference between them with due diligence; those who were at arm's length were lost, and as like to obey the orders (or requests) of the figure they perceived, whether or not it was in fact the prototype speaking.

And so it would have been, had "Fred" (I simply could not bring myself to call him "Klaus", and "Mister Clone" seemed rather insensitive upon repeated use) been somehow whisked back to Europa.

After the first shock of Fred's advent among us, he was found to be quite personable, and to have the Baron's inquisitive tendencies. Upon the situation being explained to him, he openly and before witnesses gave me his Parole. He was initially lodged in the emergency lock-up to the rear of the Steelhead Consulate office -- convenient to the Town Hall, where he had made himself summarily known to us. I was delighted when a highly respected Steelhead Manager, TotalLunar Eclipse, volunteered to independently monitor the treatment Fred recieved at our hands. For my part, as his keeper, I promised that Fred would be treated humanely as long as he did not try to escape.

More alarming, if possible, were two co-incidental footnotes to the evening, which precipitated as I left my charge secured for the night. One was the sudden appearance among my waiting associates of one Jobias Barthelmess, Steeltopian Ambassador-- he who had a history of differences (to put things mildly) with Steelhead's beloved Sherrif Ortega. The second was as the falling of pebbles that heralds the avalanche: the mention of the word "clone" in the Ambassador's presence lead inexorably to the mention of Herr Doktor Darien Mason's allegedly being a clone. At this, a gleam lit the Ambassador's eyes. It was a look I instantly distrusted .....

HALO with a Side of Dragon

With a deft starboard snap of the BAS Abwaschbecken, Frau Lowey gave the members of the squad an inertial push out the engine room door, toward the deceptively distant greenhouse roof. A modicum of sparky ingenuity had rendered the handful of buckled interior shielding plates into rough "surfboards of the aether"; we found ourselves propelled toward the glittering expanse of glass by a combination of the ship's slingshot effect and our personal jetpacks. The purloined shieldplates would serve as protection and camouflage of a sort for us on our quick journey downwards, doubling as battering rams when met with the hardened greenhouse glazing.

Signalling the rest of the squad to a final burst of speed, I directed my surfplate into the largest unsupported pane of glass visible from my angle of approach. My luck held; the glass failed to do so.

In a few short moments I landed in a crouch amid sparkling shards and bruised foliage, my comrades coming to rest in similar poses around me. Lobo's delight at this grounding was palpable; Gotke stared about as if trying to get his bearings in an environment so dissimilar from the one in which he usually hunted. Searra and Max spread out left and right respectively upon the instant, covering our flanks and leaving me to take point as our companions rapidly regained their equilibrium between us.

We shed our helmets gratefully in the airbubble of this construct world, the better to utilise the sense of smell for which we were famous. Oddly enough, amid the scents of ozone, dust, blood and clank, I smelled a peculiar admixture of cat and dragon.

All logic aside, experience indicated that the Abwaschbecken would home in unerringly on the Baron's current location. A few hand-signals, elegant in their economy, and the squad was speeding through the verdant scents of the greenhouse, following after the receding sounds of Frau Lowey's impromptu musical recital. As we went, the intriguing musky-cinnamon scent of cat-dragon became stronger, as did the heated-oil-and-old-steam odour of clanks.

Our primary goal was that of finding and protecting the Baron and his fellow beleaguered adventurers; much to the chagrin of several of our number, this mandate lead to the dodging of a small complement of Steels, patrolling a main corridor. As these mechanical horrors passed us closely by, we discerned this whispered chant from each of them: "... fear the sky ... only one chance ... Wormwood ...." Apprehension grew in me as I puzzled their mantra's potential relevance to the Eighth Chapter of the Book of Revelations ...

Rapidly rounding a corner, we found ourselves in an area intended, perhaps, for preparing the massive greenhouse's harvest for packaging and storage. Whatever its intent, it was an area that seemed designed for crowds to congregate. There was, in fact, one there now, comprised of several patrols of Steels. We had three advantages, and superior numbers was certainly not one of them. But we were behind them; they had not yet noticed our presence; and we appeared to have a rather feline dragon on our side.

The dragon, a female by the scent, had joined us from the overgrown depths of a side room; I had not previously been aware that these huge creatures could move with such stealth. She was surveying the Steels, as if calculating their numbers. Daring to interrupt her count, I tapped her on the scales of one mighty arm, and gave her a "thumbs up" with a grin and a nod toward the clank army. She turned her deep gaze upon me for a moment, then nodded once.

The dragon's roar brought all movement nearby to a stop. Into the silence, I yelled, "WE HUNT!", and the cry was taken up by the rest of the squad.

The Steels began to turn, but we were upon them, tooth and claw, gun and sword. A dragon, four Jagerkin, and whatever sort of ancient being Max was ... this is enough to give even an army of clanks pause.

Unfortunately, they did not pause long. A metallic keening should have accompanied their counterattack; or silence -- either would have been expected of them, and duly ignored. Instead, their whispers continued eerily in the same tempo and timbre as before: "... fear the sky ... only one chance ... Wormwood ...."

We fought, and they came at us like the tide coming in. We drained four of our deathrays, and they still came. We killed thousands, and they still came.

After a time I perceived two new allies fighting the Steels alongside us: one a neat young lady I recalled seeing at a Steelhead town meeting so long ago, it seemed now; the other appeared to be her paler elder sister. Both fought with skill and speed beyond human norm, so although they did not have the rank odour of the Steels, I judged them to be another form of sophisticated clank. The Steels also seemed to have acquired additional troops, in the form of feline clanks, fleet of foot and savage of jaw.

Then the ground beneath our feet shuddered rhythmically as with ponderous footsteps, and the giant clank appeared. With a bare moment's pause, our dragon flung aside the twisted remains of several Steels and fell upon this giant in what seemed a deadly dance. We and the Steels all dodged their huge feet for a moment, then resumed our own dance.

During a short ebb in the tide of battle, I leaped upon a mound of fallen Steels, hoping to locate our allies and judge the numbers of enemy still remaining. Thus I was fortuitously placed to see the arrival of Frau Lowey and young Ash Mason, moving toward the battle as quickly as reasonable tactics would permit. And around the other side of an intervening wall, I also detected the approach of the Baron, guiding O'Toole before him.

There is a moment in any battle when time telescopes; when you see something happening, and cannot stop it, cannot affect it, through simple physics. This was that sort of moment: as I watched helplessly, Frau Lowey's small party and the Baron's approached each other, nearing the same blind corner at the same time, each unaware of the other's presence. This could end badly, to say the least. I fought my way toward them, hoping against all sense to get there before something regrettable occurred.

I lost sight of the events at that corner in the swirling melee of simply getting there. When I, too, arrived at the junction of pathways, the Baron and Frau Lowey were yelling at each other in fine form, oblivious to the ebbing battle around them. As they were yelling in Europan, it was perfectly understandable that O'Toole and Ash were looking confused. Ash especially, as their relief at finding each other was palpable, in marked counterpoint to their angry tones.

Their mutual tirade culminated in Frau Lowey shrieking, "Red Fire, man – are you completely suicidal? Running around in enemy territory with your weapon holstered? Were you even thinking? We just barely missed three patrols in the past twenty minutes! There’s no cover, and your dominant hand is occupied with something other than arms? Never mind what it would do to Europa if – i-i-if you were killed ..." At this point she stopped yelling and started hyperventilating.

My relief at seeing both of them whole (and typically raging at each other) caused a bark of post-battle laughter to well up in me and burst forth. Both the Baron and Frau Lowey turned to glare at me, so I took the opportunity to further derail their ranting with what I hoped would be taken as fond teasing, also couched in Europan, "All right, you two - you can shout sweet nothings at each other when we are home. Now, WE HUNT!"

After a further glaring glance at each other, promising no doubt further words to be had on the subject, each gathered his or her charge and the five of us returned to where the rest of our allies were dispatching the last of the Steels and the kittie-clanks. Our dragon, panting heavily, rested against her fallen giant adversary. It was time to bind our wounds, regroup, and plan our next move.

Testing, testing. Ping!